Dahlia Van Althuis wasn’t technically a psychic, even though that’s what the sign above her tent read. She couldn’t see a person’s future or past, she couldn’t read a person’s mind, nor did the decorative crystal ball on her table serve any purpose other than looking mystical.

Sure, she had some skill with making deductions about people based on their body language and clothes – a skill she developed after reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes over and over again during her adolescent years shut away in her room – and she had some skill using her Tarot deck during individual or couple sessions with her customers.

Her real skill, however, revolved around touching. Dahlia was a psychometrist– she could read the history of an object or person by touching them. A person could often cause sensory overload, since their whole life story could play through her head with prolonged contact. But Dahlia needed the full dose if she was going to keep her reputation as a brilliant psychic.

Currently she was balled up in bed in her trailer. They’d been set up in a sleepy town of Italy for the past two days, with three more until they packed up and moved to their next destination. Those who were part of the sideshow acts – like Dahlia – usually weren’t involved in a lot of the set-up or take-down of the fair, nor did they have to wake up early to prepare for the day.

That’s why it was odd for someone to be pounding on her trailer door. Dahlia sat up, her dyed black hair sticking out in odd directions, as she blinked herself awake. She stumbled out of her bed and to the door of the trailer, opening it to find the smirking face of her friend.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Manfred chuckled, pulling his blonde hair into a ponytail.

“You’re hilarious,” she muttered, as she ran her fingers through her hair in attempts to calm her bedhead. “Why was I so rudely awakened?”

“Dude, have you seriously forgotten?” He looked at her incredulously. “It’s your birthday today, you nugget.”

“Oh ,” Dahlia chuckled. “I need to get a calendar.”

“How am I even friends with you?”

“Because I know your deepest, darkest secrets,” she grinned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved her off. “Just get dressed; mom wants to have a celebration before we open up.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Manfred’s mother, Alma, owned Le Carnaval des Perdus – The Carnival of the Lost. It had been in their family for generations. His older brother, Benedict, was currently learning how to manage it in order to take over once Alma decided to retire. Benedict’s wife, Gretchen, was the manager of the food division of the carnival, and Dahlia could only imagine what had been whipped up to celebrate her birthday.

Dahlia pulled on her standard work clothes - a long, gathered skirt, a loose tunic with a shawl that had noisy beaded fringe on the edges. She typically went barefoot in her tent, but she threw on a pair of beaded sandals for her walk across the grounds. Slipping on an array of bangles on her wrists and a twist wrap headband, she stepped out to greet her friend.

“No makeup today?” He wondered as they walked in tandem to the food division.

Dahli